


Something Like Normal

by Asidian



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Invaders (Marvel), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Community: capkink, Fuckbuddies, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, M/M, Nostalgia, Old Friends, Oral Sex, war buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It always started someplace they used to know. In a house long-since wrecked and paved over; in a battlefield thick with wild grass and rubble; in an empty cemetery filled with rows of the dead and the two poor saps who outlived them.</p><p>Next came the drinks – for Bucky, anyway. He'd put away four or five, till the world got comfortably numb at the edges. Namor's cold disapproval, haughty and holier-than-thou, was like a snapshot from the past. It always felt like he was some dumb kid again, in hot water and waiting for the high and mighty Sub-Mariner to come fish him out. But not before he judged a little. Never before that.</p><p>And when the drinking finished up, when they'd talked over things dead and gone, it always ended the same.</p><p>It ended with him pressed up against a wall while the king of Atlantis mouthed his throat, lips cold and smooth and talented. It ended with that instant, as they finished, when Bucky could forget about the ones they’d lost and the ones he’d killed and the decades upon decades that he spent as someone else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Normal

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely anon at capkink who wanted anything Namor/Bucky.
> 
> I've had something like this fic in my head ever since I read the oneshot Winter Kills. There is something about that scene at the end, with them sitting by Toro's grave talking about things gone by, that kind of broke my heart. The getting there was interesting; this is very much not the fic that it started out to be, by which I mean I scrapped and rewrote the first page entirely. Also, the transitions were hell and are, subsequently, awful. ^^
> 
> Set in comicverse, after Winter Kills but before Bucky teams up with Nat and starts being Captain America as a regular thing.

They found time between special ops and diplomatic crises.

They found space where no one would look for them: a run-down warehouse by the East River, an oil rig off the coast of Newfoundland, a pretty little inn in Versailles where Namor footed the bill.

It always started someplace they used to know. In a house long-since wrecked and paved over; in a battlefield thick with wild grass and rubble; in an empty cemetery filled with rows of the dead and the two poor saps who outlived them.

Next came the drinks – for Bucky, anyway. He'd put away four or five, till the world got comfortably numb at the edges. Namor's cold disapproval, haughty and holier-than-thou, was like a snapshot from the past. It always felt like he was some dumb kid again, in hot water and waiting for the high and mighty Sub-Mariner to come fish him out. But not before he judged a little. Never before that.

And when the drinking finished up, when they'd talked over things dead and gone, it always ended the same.

It ended with him pressed up against a wall while the king of Atlantis mouthed his throat, lips cold and smooth and talented. It ended with that instant, as they finished, when Bucky could forget about the ones they’d lost and the ones he’d killed and the decades upon decades that he spent as someone else entirely.

They'd done this enough to have a routine now. They'd done this enough for the cobbled-together pieces to be something like normal.

But the first time, Bucky hadn't known what to expect.

The first time, when Namor shoved him up against the rough brick of some tourist shop long closed for the night, Bucky'd shivered and shifted and rubbed. It had been years – been decades – and every little touch was borderline overwhelming.

"Christ," he'd breathed, appreciative, and shuddered when Namor slotted a thigh between his own to give him more friction.

He'd been aware of Namor's eyes on him, a flat, black stare that gave nothing away. He'd been aware that he was making a noise that ought to be embarrassing and couldn't find it in himself to care.

And Bucky'd come panting and shaking like some goddamn virgin, both of them still fully clothed.

"How on earth did you ever impress those girls of yours?" Namor had asked him when he came down, absolute deadpan.

There'd been nothing for it but to shut him up – so Bucky'd gone down on his knees on the rough pavement, face burning, and licked his lips. "Like this." Then he'd sucked off the king of Atlantis, and when Namor tugged on his hair, so hard his scalp stung – well, that was probably the best compliment the ass ever gave anyone.

But there'd been plenty chances since to get that particular compliment.

They'd done old graves and drinks, talked about that time Jim saved saved their asses on a lakeshore in France. The beach at Normandy and drinks, remembered the way Toro's face used to light up when he met a pretty girl. Camp Lehigh and drinks, recalled Steve's conviction, and his determination, and his endless, unfailing ability to point his moral compass toward true north.

And if there were more drinks when the subject was Steve, if Bucky'd gone and left the imprint of his metal fist clean through Camp Lehigh's old barracks wall, Namor didn't say a word. He was a jerk sometimes, but he hadn't been a jerk just then.

Bucky was willing to forgive him a lot for that.

He was willing to forgive, for instance, the infuriating smirk on the man's lips every time he palmed Bucky through his jeans, like he was expecting a finish as quick as the first one.

But they'd been doing this for awhile – enough so that Bucky'd gotten over the nerve-scrapping rawness of their first few encounters. He’d been learning to be a person again, with perks like decent food and a bed to sleep in and pleasure for pleasure's sake.

So now, when Namor traced the shape of his erection through the denim, Bucky didn't gasp and twitch and end things too soon. He just reached up with two hands, one metal and one flesh, to peel back the black fabric of Namor's open vest.

The skintight ensemble wasn’t as flashy as the way Namor used to dress, back in the war. It had nothing in common with the improbable outfit the man had worn into battle: bold and green and scaled, covering a swatch of skin barely wide enough to count as decent.

"You still have your old uniform?" Bucky let his touch linger, traced along the pale skin of Namor’s chest. "You could bring it along sometime. Y’know, for old times’ sake.”

He wouldn’t mind seeing it again, truth be told – certainly hadn’t minded seeing it on the man when they’d both been younger. But Namor missed the honesty and the appreciation both.

"You scarcely need the encouragement to finish any faster."

"Uh huh. Funny man." Bucky slid the vest back over Namor's shoulders and let it fall to the cheap hotel room carpet, ignoring the way his face began to burn. "But you might wanna try being nice to the fella who's about to suck you off."

His metal hand found the gold length of the Atlantean's belt, and he eased it out – a long, steady, pull – until it dangled from his grip. And if he angled the toss a bit too far, if it skidded across the floor to land with a muffled whump as it struck mottled plaster, well, Namor'd had that coming. "Think of it as an investment for the future."

Bucky glanced up to see the affronted way Namor's dark eyes followed the belt, hid his grin by bending his head down to lick at the Atlantean's chest. At the first flat, pink nipple, he paused – circled the shape of it and then bit down.

He didn't wait for long – just kept right on going down past sculpted abs to silken pants that looked like they were worth as much as Bucky’s metal arm. The shape of Namor, half-hard beneath the thin material, struck a chord of want down his spine.

The fingers of Bucky's metal hand slipped, light and searching, into Namor’s waistband; a burnished metal thumb traced the line of a hipbone. With exaggerated care, metal fingers guided the cloth down over Namor's hips, past his thighs – and when black fabric was puddled at the man's feet and Namor had stepped free of it, he traced his way back up, following the line of newly exposed skin. The man wore nothing beneath the sleek, fitted black of his leggings; his length, half-hard, jutted out from a thatch of thick, dark hair.

Bucky grinned at the sight of it, at the way it twitched when his metal fingers skirted Namor's thigh. "Anyway,” he remarked, casual as could be, “looks like you don't feel much like waiting, either."

Experience had shown him how to get the best reactions, and so Bucky made a show of licking his lips, leaned in nice and slow to ease the very tip into his mouth. He touched his tongue to the spot just below the head, made soft circles there, and by the time he started to swallow down the rest of it, Namor was thick and ready, fully hard.

If Bucky's mouth had been empty, he would've had another quip for that – but it had more important things to do, so he shut up and did them, focusing on the right motions, the right speed, the salty taste heavy on his tongue.

His flesh hand crept downward, working open the buttons of his own jeans. He was ready, too, already wound tight enough to ache, and at the feel of his own palm, Bucky hissed a breath through his nose and rocked forward. He rose up straighter on his knees so that clumsy fingers could shove down denim and briefs to mid-thigh – made a low sound in his throat when he took himself in hand and began to move.

Namor's hands, all long lines and elegant strength, fell to his head and traced pathways through his hair. They'd be clutching before long, if Bucky had his way, be giving that most authentic of compliments as Namor froze and jerked in sated silence. Just the thought made him harder still, and Bucky shifted – took a better grip – ran his thumb along the head of his own cock.

He was just starting to pick up a rhythm, just starting to rock into his own touch, when Namor's hands settled on his shoulders and pushed back abruptly. "Enough."

Bucky's lips came free with a soft, wet sound. His hand's movement stuttered and then broke, and he lifted his head, brow beginning to crease. "What," he said, "you done already? After running your mouth like that?"

"On the contrary," Namor insisted. "I'm only starting. On the bed, Barnes."

And hell if that didn't send a bolt of lightning straight down Bucky's spine. The electricity settled low in his abdomen, pooled and sparked there, glowing.

Since they'd started this – whatever this was – they'd fallen into a routine: Bucky on his knees, the king of Atlantis imperious and demanding before him. Sometimes, Namor's strong, slender hands would help to finish Bucky off. Most often, he did it himself.

Bucky didn't hold it against the guy. He'd known coming in that if he wanted attentive and considerate, there were better choices. But there were more important things than variety, more important things than sex altogether – things like bringing back days gone by with the only one left who remembered them. Things like a few hours with a man who'd had his back for the better part of seventy years.

There'd never been anything like this before – this breaking of pattern, this outright demand for more. There was a thrill to it that danced along his nerves, that caught the heat in his groin and twisted it tighter. His hand was still on his own cock, and he couldn't resist the urge to give it one final, lingering stroke before rising up from his knees.

"What'd you have in mind?" Bucky asked, voice low and casual. Easy as breathing, he slipped his hands into his own waistband and shoved down – stepped out of the sloppy pile the discarded clothes made on the floor.

He didn't wait for the answer, just sauntered with deliberate steps to the bed and sat down on the edge, knees spread – waiting.

Namor's eyes were on him. Had been on him, maybe, for the whole short trip, and Bucky felt the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well? Let's go, your majesty." He reached out with metal fingers across the space between them and pulled the king of Atlantis in close. "We gonna do this or not?"

But for a moment, there was no reply. There was just that unreadable face, like a statue in the dusty corner of some museum, expression one Bucky couldn't parse.

He remembered thinking, back when he was just some dumb kid swallowed up in a war too big for him, that he'd be out of luck if he ever got the legendary Sub-Mariner into a card game. Namor had the best poker face Bucky'd ever seen, and he'd seen a lot of them.

He thought it again now, looking over features that didn't give a hint to what went on behind them.

Bucky wasn’t one for squirming, but he shifted on the blankets now, aroused and suddenly uncertain, and hating the combination. "C'mon," he said, and trailed his fingers up Namor's thigh. "Quit wasting time."

In response, one of those long-fingered hands reached out to take hold of Bucky's cock, grip firm and cool and welcome. "I never waste time." One thumb traced the length of it, an idle exploration, and after the pace Bucky'd been setting for himself, it wasn’t anywhere near as much as he needed. "I spend exactly as long as I mean to."

Bucky snorted, shook his head. "Your plan better be open to revisions, then." He spread his legs wider still, lifted one to angle it behind Namor's knees and reel him in. The king of Atlantis came willingly enough – shuffled forward the extra two feet until they were skin to skin.

Metal fingers slid over the small of Namor's back – dragged the man down until they were forehead to forehead, at eye level.

"You reassure me you don't mean to end this too soon," the Atlantean remarked. The man's hold tightened and pulled, putting all the right pressure in all the right places, and Bucky cursed, bit his lip, rocked his hips into it. "And yet, somehow I have my doubts."

"Says the guy who had to break it off before he –" Namor chose precisely that moment to start up a new rhythm, grip tight and pace fast, and Bucky tipped his head back, took a shaky breath in. "Hell," he said. "That's nice."

"You were saying?" Namor's voice was all smug insinuation, and Bucky would've wanted to wipe the smirk right off his face, if the sight of it didn't send a twist of desire bursting under his skin like fireworks.

"Yeah," Bucky breathed. "I was saying your plan's aces."

It must have been the right answer.

It must have been exactly what Namor wanted to hear, because fuck if the king of Atlantis wasn't getting on his knees between the legs of the biggest screw-up the grand old U S of A had ever seen. The man was lowering his mouth to the tip of Bucky's cock and lapping, like some fancy well-bred cat with a plate of cream, and it had to be just about the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

Bucky groaned, and it was too loud in the little room. He'd been set on proving the man wrong – had gotten better at proving the man wrong – but Namor'd never done this for him before.

Hell, no one had done this for him before. Not the girls he’d tumbled during the war, who’d been looking for a no-frills good time when good times were few and far between. Not Toro, who'd blushed and stammered and been too shy for more than wandering hands. Not even Natalia, the one bright spot in seventy years of blood and destruction, who'd been neither embarrassed nor afraid of trying new things.

Maybe they would have gotten there, eventually. Maybe they would've learned things they both liked. But they'd been together just a handful of times before his handlers caught on and took that away from him, too – replaced it with ice and pain and murder.

But now the untouchable Sub-Mariner, the man who'd once given a younger version of himself hard-ons he'd rather have died than admit to, was down between his legs, doing things with his tongue that had Bucky seeing stars.

"Jesus," said Bucky, reverentially. He let his flesh hand fall to Namor's head, threaded shaky fingers through the man's sleek, black hair. The metal hand he left on the blankets, let its fingers close around the fabric as though to hang on.

There was nothing coy about the path Namor's tongue was taking now – nothing delicate or light. It started at the base of him and trailed to the tip, a long, slow swipe that had Bucky rocking up to follow it. When it completed the path, it began again, smooth and even. One of the man's hands fell to settle on his thigh, the thumb brushing an absent back-and-forth, almost like they were sweethearts. The other had reached between Namor's legs, closed long, pale fingers around his own length and started to stroke.

And that was good, too. There was something about it, about their usual positions being swapped, that made the sight enticing. Bucky leaned forward to watch the tips of those fingers slide along Namor's length, and he shuddered at the visual and the sensations both combined.

Typically, no sooner was he really getting into it than Namor stopped. "Honestly, Barnes," he said. "I hardly need an overseer." He placed a hand in the center of Bucky's chest and shoved backward, and his effortless strength laid Bucky out flat on the covers.

"How bout an audience?" Bucky asked him, quirking a hopeful grin. But Namor was busy crawling up between his legs, and whatever protest he'd planned seemed suddenly a whole lot less important.

It was probably just as well, because Namor didn't bother to reply. He only dove back in, long slow licks and little swirls, pulling back now and again to mouth wetly at the tip. Bucky let his head fall back, let himself stretch out and enjoy it, and he slid one hand down to Namor's shoulder – the flesh hand, so that he could feel cool, smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

When Namor finally stopped the careful attention of his tongue and guided Bucky in between his lips, the gentle, gliding pressure was out of this world. Bucky groaned again, louder this time, and rocked his hips forward. He was expecting Namor to hold him, expecting the man's elegant fingers to come up and keep him still.

Instead, Namor let him move – just opened wider and obligingly let Bucky push into the soft, moist velvet of his mouth.

They were shallow thrusts, little rolls of his hips that kept most of the contact with Namor's tongue on the very tip of him. The feeling racing through him was dynamite, was pure distilled bliss. At some point, his brain had shorted out; he could hear his own breathing, ragged and loud, and couldn't possibly care less.

The tension coiled sweet and low in his abdomen, and Bucky felt his muscles beginning to tense – strained and ready, waiting for a finish. "Heads up, pal," he managed, with effort. "You might wanna–"

But he caught sight of Namor's eyes, dark and amused, as they flickered up his way. Then the king of Atlantis was swallowing him down, taking the whole length of him like sucking off old war buddies in crummy hotel rooms was a weekend hobby – no big deal, business as usual, move along.

Bucky came hard and sudden, back arched, feet scrambling for purchase on the bedspread. He came harder than he had since that first time, gasping out Namor's name, sounding rough and breathy and wrecked.

The man's tongue worked him through the aftershocks, through the little twitches and shudders as he came down. His mind was a distant hum, the what ifs and the maybes and the drowning regrets well and truly shut up for a change. And Namor was crawling up the bed to stretch out next to him, cock still hard and red, and Bucky gave him a lazy, grateful smile as he reached out to take hold of it.

"Y'know," he remarked, as he began to stroke. "You're not half bad at that."

"You'll find there's very little I'm bad at," Namor told him, but the arrogant assuredness behind the words was ruined somewhat by the way the man arched into the touch.

Bucky shook his head and let it stand – tightened his grip and stroked more quickly. He brought the metal hand up to trace the line of Namor's side, down along his hip, over the curve of one thigh.

And just like that, Namor was coming, too, no noise escaping him but a muffled rush of breath, those confident, dark eyes squeezed shut against the feel of it. For just a moment, that perfect poker face was gone, and in its place was honest appreciation. Bucky watched until it had faded – until the man's face had evened out into something more neutral – until Namor opened his eyes once more and fixed Bucky with a steady stare, as though daring him to comment.

So of course, Bucky had to comment. "Looks like I'm not half bad, either," he remarked – then laughed as Namor stood, naked, and strode unconcernedly toward the bathroom.

"You'd be better," the king of Atlantis told him, with a hint of a smile in his backward glance, "if you did not feel the need to banter from start to finish."

The bathroom door clicked closed behind him, and an instant later, the hiss of running water filled the little room as Namor turned the shower on.

Bucky lay back among the blankets and discovered the speckled stains on the plaster ceiling. He watched them until his eyes grew heavy – until he began to wonder idly, with groggy pre-sleep thoughts, if Namor meant to use enough water to fill the ocean.

He hadn’t intended to sleep here. The circumstances under which he allowed himself to rest had narrowed dramatically since the war years. Then, there’d always been a watch to keep and an enemy to anticipate. Now, no one was left to stand the watch but him, and the enemy was everywhere.

His gun was in its holster, halfway across the room; his combat knife was in its sheath, still strapped to the pants that lay crumpled on the floor. Bucky couldn't remember the last time he'd drifted off to sleep without one or the other within easy reach, but the bedding was soft beneath him, and he was warm, and the easy torpor of good sex was making his limbs heavy. Besides, a door away, one of the most capable men he'd ever met was filling the air with the rush of running water.

If he closed his eyes, Bucky could pretend that the world outside this room would wait for a while. If he closed his eyes, it wasn't so hard to pretend that the little bit he'd rebuilt of his life was something like normal.

And so Bucky closed his eyes, and he slept.


End file.
